Dragging Tate’s shirt upwards, fingers fumbling with his jeans button. Tate’s strong hand around my wrist telling me to stop.
Tate wasn’t lying.
I blink away the memory.
“You’re going to regret teasing me, Myf.”
“Uh huh.” I attempt to read the words on my script but instead replay the image in my head. How far did I get? Did I touch... Why the hell can’t I remember? I’ve spent evenings trying, even considered drinking myself to a similar state and writing down any memories that come to me.
“Your ears turn pink when you’re embarrassed,” he remarks. “Or something else causing that?”
Today I intended to focus on Angel City, to smother emotions from the afternoon with Miles and replace them with Brit’s calm and collected character. I never have problems switching into character, never have. But not today, when my stomach muscles ache from sobbing. Not when that’s joined by humiliating memories from July; the day that pulled everything I thought I knew about myself and the world out of grasp.
The crew continue working around us, occasional shout-outs to each other as lights are rigged around the nearby set. I focus away from Tate and his effect, and to the FBI office desk, covered in Brit’s life, the one I’ve led to bury mine. The photos, the pens she chooses. On the wall nearby, gruesome images of fake murder victims, head shots of suspects.
Dev’s leather jacket slung over a chair at the next desk.
I struggle to my feet, as the rollercoaster tips. Brit’s life isn’t mine. I’m not her. I can’t bury myself away from everything by pretending to be something I’m not.
“I’ll see you on set,” I tell Tate. Shallow breathing takes over, and I head towards the studio doors and fresh air
“Myf!” Tate’s voice follows me to the edge of the studio, through the darker corner, and toward the entrance. I keep walking, out the door towards my trailer. “Myf! Wait. I’m sorry, okay?”
Extras sitting outside the catering van watch and whisper as I pass, chin high. Running footsteps, then Tate catches my arm. I spin around and drag it away. “This is all such a joke to you, isn’t it? I’m a joke! Our wed—” I stop myself as panic freezes Tate’s features. “My life.”
I turn and stamp away. He easily catches up again. “Something happened. What happened?”
“You pissed me off. It’s upsetting when you talk to me like I’m an object.”
“You’re not an object to me.” He takes my hand and pulls me around a corner, close to a studio brick wall. “I was out of line. I forget you’re not someone who likes the kind of guy who has a mouth on him.”
“Ugh. Don’t tell me girls fall for that dirty talk.” Like me.
He switches on the grin, eyes shining, and points at his face. “I’m Tate Daniels, remember? I think I’m god’s gift to women and should get over myself and stop the bullshit. Apparently. My wife said that to me once.”
“And that! This isn’t a joke! You make me want to call this off and walk away.” My voice hitches and Tate rubs my arm in the panicked way he did once before. “I want to leave LA!”
“Myf, you can’t. Contracts. You’re not the kind of girl who runs from things. You’re strong. You don’t let people sway you.”
“I’ve had enough of people treating me like crap.” I sink against the wall, sliding my legs out as I stare into the clouding LA sky. “This is too much.”
“Who’s treating you like crap? Someone on set? I’ll talk to them.”
I shake my head. “Not on the show.”
“Did you see Miles?” he asks in a low voice. “Is that what happened?”
“Not talking about it,” I mumble.
“That’s a yes?”
My eyes remain on the sky. “Can I have five minutes alone, please?”
“To pretend everything is okay?”
I shift my head, looking back into the face of the Tate who held my hand, literally and figuratively, as my world disintegrated in front of my eyes in Vegas. “I’m an actress. I have a job to do. I’ll be okay in a minute.”
Tate rests on the wall next to me. “I forget how good an actress you are. I didn’t realise how much you’re hurting; that you’re not as strong as I remember. How long have you pretended you can hold all this together and not be affected by what’s happened?”
“I’m fine.”
He stares at his shoes. “I did the wrong thing asking you to help me out by... y’know. The thing.”
“The thing.” I half laugh. “My decision.”
“But you’re becoming more Brit and less Myf. You’re harder to talk to. You’re not her, from years ago.”
“When did we ever have cosy chats? Are you surprised?”
“Kind of. But I miss the singing and dancing Myf.”
“I’m method acting my role as Brit by living her character off set too.” Tate side-glances me, and I huff. “Okay, no. I’m healing, that’s all.”
“We have a midseason break soon. Maybe you should go back to Wales for a breather and not quit altogether?”
“Maybe.”
“Though I’d miss you.” Tate’s fingers lace with mine at our sides, and I stare down in shock.” He squeezes my hand gently. “I wish you remembered more about Vegas.”
“Not as much as I wish I did.”
“I’ll tell you one day.” A golf buggy passes at walking pace, carrying cast members, and Tate snatches his hand away. “Maybe we could spend some time together when we’re in Colorado next week?”
“If Savannah will let you. “
He fixes me with a straight-up look. “You really are obsessed about that aren’t you?”
“No.” Yes.
“I’m not with her. We weren’t really a couple anyway. Besides...” He grins at me. “If I hook up with a girl these days, she’ll spread rumours I’m impotent. Y’know, with not being allowed to ‘perform’ to my best.”
A smile cracks through my miserable face; he’s done it again. Charming, lovable, rogue Tate. He can go one better than being nice to adults. Once he stepped in to amuse a toddler who was playing an extra. The kid wouldn’t stop crying, and we needed to continue a scene. Tate fixed that. Not only did he cheer up the child with a song, but there were smitten girls on set swooning over his actions. Bad boy Tate is good with children. I shook my head at their reaction, ignoring the fact my insides turned gooey at the behaviour too.
The man will be rescuing puppies next.
Why can’t he keep being be a jerk like the side I saw five minutes earlier?
“You want something from the canteen? Did you eat breakfast?” he asks.
Gah. See?
“Grab me a smoothie if you like.”
“Sure thing, Mrs—” He halts. “Sorry.”
Aware curious eyes watch us, I duck my head and wander back to where I dropped my new script on the black chair.
Leafing through the script, I skim scenes to get a gist of what I’m facing and may need to rehearse.
And here’s the moment I dread.
I read the words over and over, touching my mouth.
They kiss.
There’s no real direction what kind of kiss, how long, who initiates. I begin my mantra: Dev and Brit, not Tate and Myf. Who am I fooling? The last time we kissed as actors, on stage six years ago, my identical reactions to the character’s took hours to soothe. I close my eyes. Do not remember that night.
Somebody shoves a tall cup into my hand. “Next week looks fun.”
I open my eyes to Tate holding a breakfast sandwich wrap and wish I’d asked him to bring me one instead. Smoothies, good; bacon, better.
“Thanks for this, Tate. And do you mean the trip to Colorado?”
He taps the script. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t stress. Last time you kissed me was no big deal to you either.”
Tate, when playing Dev, often pulls on a sadness, one Dev attempts to hide as tough guy brooding. Exactly this crosses Tate’s face for a fleeting moment.<
br />
Is that what’s happening? Did I hurt him somehow? I’d presumed I’d kicked him in the ego, not the teeth. Is he really different to the Tate Daniels who tried to win me over all those years ago?
But Tate’s look triggers something worse. As he wanders away, biting into his wrap, I’m blinded by a memory from Vegas again.
Quiet. Outside. Dark. Hot. Newlyweds, her in a stunning white gown, beside her immaculate husband, posing in front of the fountains, which danced in the background; the beautiful couple stunning everybody around.
A drunk Tate whispering in my ear that he loved me and always had.
17
The short drive from Denver airport to the Colorado town ends along a narrow road, winding upwards to a hotel. I’ve travelled the States with friends, and then Miles, but cities rather than small towns. Perhaps growing up in rural Wales gave me my fill of quiet places where everybody knew the business of their neighbours, and my dislike of that kept me away. Funny how life in Wales felt more claustrophobic than the crammed-in-a-city living in Manhattan and LA.
The small hotel perches on a hill overlooking the dense forest behind. I made my own way here, in a taxi from the airport, eager to check in and relax. Stepping into the cool evening, I breathe in the fresh scent unusual after the city pollution. Maybe there are advantages to country living after all.
The place ticks the small-town filming-location boxes: a long main street filled with stores, old movie theatre on the corner, a school and hotel in close proximity to town, all bordered by trees ripe for Brit and Dev to chase the bad guys through.
The production schedule places us here for two days, and that schedule will challenge my already low energy levels. I’m not the only one exhausted by the intense filming, the cast and crew all infected by fatigue as we approach the midseason break.
The hotel bustles with film crew and other actors but no Tate. We start filming early tomorrow, so where is he? We haven’t spoken since the strange conversation a couple of days ago. He’s kept himself apart from others, as he does sometimes. Other than what we need to say to each other on set, he’s silent. Is this star-like attitude or self-defence? Weird. Like him marrying me and then behaving as if he can’t stand the sight of me the next day because I might ruin his career.
I expected curiosity from hotel staff, but the girl at the small reception points at pictures on the dark wood-panelled wall, of stars and TV shows filmed in the area each season. Once I mention which show I’m with, the young girl on reception snaps out of her bored air and grabs my hand. “Is Tate Daniels staying here too?”
I extract my hand and push the completed check-in form toward her. “I presume so. Hasn’t he registered?”
The girl pulls up records on her computer screen, her tales of past stars forgotten as the prospect of meeting my co-star brightens her face.
I tap my foot on the floor, staring at the girl’s dark curls and make-up laden face. Check me in, as I’m here?
“Not here.” Her mouth turns down.
“Maybe he’s booked under another name. There aren’t any other hotels he can stay at are there?” I point at the check-in form. “If you could just—”
I’ve lost her. The girl creates a key card with one hand, and drops it on the counter not looking up. She pulls out her phone and works her fingers quickly across the screen, a triumphant smile on her face. The town’s female population are about to hear the news.
I pick my key card up. “I’ll... never mind.”
A nearby bellboy in a smart red uniform and old-style cap takes my bag, and I head to the elevators tucked away in the corner.
The functional room along a short corridor is styled more like the motels I’ve stayed in on past travels. Basic bed, table; a bathroom with a shower head above the bath and PVC shower curtain that’s seen better days. I imagine the uniformity runs through the whole establishment. Do they have VIP rooms? If they do and Tate’s in one, it’ll be a step down from his home.
Through the window, my view of the nearby hills is obscured by the tall pine trees. Show personnel arrive in taxis driving up and down the narrow laneway. Apart from an extras role where I survived in a thick woodland—and onscreen—for five minutes, this is my first location filming.
The excitement is marred by the oncoming Brit and Dev kiss. I thank my lucky stars that the actual “love scene” is saved for on set, and I’ve more time to mentally prepare myself for half-nakedness. The prospect I’m facing for that isn’t as bad as I pictured. I’m told to expect fade to black and the morning after with sheets modestly pulled over us. Thank god this isn’t a show targeted at an edgier audience.
Once I get this kiss out of the way and prove to myself that my professionalism extends to locking lips with actors I’m attracted to, I can cope with everything else. Each day Brit and Dev spend together, I fall further for Dev as portrayed by Tate. I’m succumbing the same way as the show’s fans. But that’s the point—his character’s supposed to hit all the right buttons for a woman: alpha protector with a hint of vulnerable, a bad boy with a big heart. The heart viewers are divided over whether Brit deserves.
I eat dinner in the small hotel restaurant, studying the wood-clad walls and the needlepoint tapestries between. The meal is nice enough, pork chili washed down with a glass of wine, but the reason I chose to eat here, and not my room, doesn’t appear. Tate. Has he arrived yet? We film early tomorrow. Maybe he’s in bed. No, not at 10.00 p.m. My mind makes several unnecessary leaps: or in bed with Savannah?
I can’t stop thinking about the words I remembered the other day. Tate told me he loved me. Was he drunk or is something more buried beneath? Is that why he won’t divorce me? No, that’s ridiculous.
An hour spent brooding in true Dev style, I push away my plate and leave.
18
The crunch of branches. Footsteps on leaves. I run through the dense woods, perspiring underneath my suit and FBI jacket. The pursuit stops as I conceal myself behind a tree. The cable ties pinch my wrists as shallow breaths join the adrenaline.
Dev annoys Brit, implying she can’t undertake investigations alone. If he had another of his heavy nights, failing to meet at the scheduled place, it isn’t Brit’s fault she’s tried to do this alone. They don’t know how long the targets will be in the area.
Instead, here’s Brit’s monumental screw up.
Yes, caught by the bad guys. Again. Although this time with no Dev around to rescue her, Brit dealt with the situation herself.
I didn’t dare tell the scriptwriters that the diminutive Brit taking on three men, hands tied, and escaping was a push against believability, but who am I to say? The scriptwriters and directors make the call. I took down the smarmy English guy and managed to shoot another. How fortunate I could reacquire my gun from the basement floor, and target him despite my cable-tied handicap. Bloody impressive and extremely unlikely. Maybe I’m the one with supernatural powers...
But somebody follows me now.
Terrified to look around the tree, I rest my head on the bark and focus on every sound. Footsteps close in—they must belong to another person as they’re more distant. Please god, not more people, otherwise the only thing Dev will find is my body.
A yell interrupts the quiet; large birds flap into the sky calling in alarm. The sound of a struggle. Low voices. I peek around the trunk, shaking hands still holding my gun, and steel myself.
Tate rehearsed this fight yesterday with the stunt man, and I admit to being impressed at the coordination. More effects will be added in later, but the realism allows me to stay in character as the camera focuses on my face and at Brit’s horrified reaction.
The action stops once Dev punches the other man unconscious. Tate’s good at Dev’s fight scenes as they always end the same: with the bad guy on the ground, occasionally deceased.
I rest against the tree, waiting as the make-up artists impressively add injuries to Tate’s face, not too many because my angel partner heals quickly.
“Can you take the ties off for a few?” I ask the nearby crew.
A guy snips them off, and I rub at my sore wrists and look to the patchy blue sky visible through the overarching tree canopies.
Kiss. My mouth dries. T-minus two minutes and counting.
‘I’m Brit, not Myf.’
I repeat the words over to myself and pop a mint into my mouth as I watch Tate. Dev.
Ties back on, the cameras roll and Tate’s Dev steps towards me.
“What the hell were you doing, Brit? You can’t deal with these men alone. They won’t hesitate to put several bullets in your head.”
“An FBI officer’s head? I doubt it.”
He grabs my wrists in one hand and pulls a convenient flick-knife from his pocket. “Sometimes I think you’re driven by your desire to get one over on me, not results. You don’t think straight.”
“Really?” I pull my wrists away and place my hands behind my back. “In my last partnership, things were equal. And my partner certainly didn’t drink all night and not arrive for work the next day.”
“I don’t drink.” He tucks the knife back into his jacket.
“So why do you look like you’ve been awake half the night every time we have early meet ups?”
Dev rubs blood from the side of his lip and examines it. “None of your business. I arrive, and we succeed, right? Well, apart from when you’re stupid enough to pursue mafia on your own.”
“I was fine.”
“Yeah? You’re shaking like a bloody leaf.” He plants a hand on my shoulder, and I stiffen at his contact. Dev’s eyes soften from anger to concern as he wipes a thumb across my cheek. “I don’t want you hurt, Brit.”
“I said I’m fine.” My—Brit’s—voice cracks. Not fine. I can’t tell Dev they held me hostage; that I’ve spent the last few hours attempting to escape.
“Over twenty-four hours,” he says in a low voice. “More than a day wondering what the hell happened to you.”
“You needn’t worry.”
“I do though.”
My breath catches in surprise as Tate’s mouth hits mine. A strong arm curls my waist and Tate holds the back of my head as he kisses me. Heat floods through me as the unrestrained need pours from him.
Unscripted Page 11
